No Escape
by Ravenhurst
Summary: AU to CollarVerse.  In light of an escape attempt by Greg, Stacy reflects on what brought them together and what the future holds.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** No lie - I'm fascinated by the character of Stacy Warner and especially with the relationship she and House share, both in the CanonVerse and in the CollarVerse AU. As interesting as it is to puzzle out how two irascible, independent people can have a relationship as they did in the CanonVerse, I've found it even more interesting to think about how the circumstances of the CollarVerse would affect not just the relationship, but the many personalities that push and pull these interesting people. Here is an exploration of Greg and Stacy's relationship set in an AU to the CollarVerse. How quickly this will be updated remains to be seen, but since it's been percolating for a couple months and I'm still not bored with it, I guess I'm pretty committed to seeing this story through to an end.

At some point, this story will probably have some sexual content. To accommodate this, I've chosen to rate the story M even though it may be some time before any sexual content is reached. Maybe that's something ya'll can look forward to. :)

Thanks to everyone who has supported my writing here on FF. I look forward to continuing to explore the CollarVerse with you.

**Disclaimer:** Blah blah Fox blah blah. The CollarVerse AU is the creation of oflymonddreams. This story is an AU to the CollarVerse and isn't connected to CollarVerse or CollarVerse AU stories written by anyone else.

* * *

><p><strong>No Escape<strong>

Chapter One

The two dark haired women regarded each other across the span of a tidy professional desk. The late afternoon sun barely penetrated the blinds drawn across the single window overlooking a small lawn and parking lot beyond. The room was shadowed. _Appropriate_, Stacy Warner thought. The topic Lisa Cuddy was discussing with her was not a pleasant one.

"And he never said anything about this to you," Cuddy was saying. "You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. But he doesn't exactly go out of his way to tell me everything. You know how he is."

Cuddy held up a hand. "Yes, I know. Fine. You realize that this needs to be reported; there may be questions. Slave Administration is going to have to be involved and considering Greg's worth, there might be an investigation. The hospital's use of Greg is unique and we don't need anyone causing trouble for us; the department of diagnostics has been a great asset for us."

Stacy had heard it all before, so she didn't feel bad cutting Lisa off. "So why can't they just leave it be? We've got everything under control."

"You know as well as I do that it doesn't work like that. Greg's little stunt could end up reflecting badly on you, too."

"I'm not removing the tag."

"I'm not telling you to and you've given me no reason to revoke your tagging privilege. If anything, it's your care and control that's going to get him through this in one piece. Still, Slave Admin might have some questions. It's possible that they'll say you have a conflict of interest, since you're the legal representation of the owner of the slave you've been allowed to tag. If he ends up sanctioned for this escape attempt - and you know he will be - you might get taken down, too. Your career doesn't need a blemish like that, and neither does the hospital."

"I can worry about my own career, Lisa."

"I know you can. Just - be careful."

Stacy sighed. "Can I see Greg now?"

Cuddy rubbed her forehead. "You know this isn't a good idea."

"He's under my care and control; I have a legal right to see him."

"Fine." She picked up the phone to call security. "Just don't expect him to thank you for this."

* * *

><p>The sharp, measured sounds her shoes made on the linoleum echoed in the near-empty hallway as Stacy followed the security meathead who was leading her to the basement. She was monstrously angry but she refused to betray a hint of it to anyone. Besides, it was a shitty lawyer who'd crack under emotional pressure and Stacy Warner was not - <em>not<em> - a shitty lawyer. She'd keep her cool. Once she had some answers, then she could lose her temper.

There was no rule saying that she needed to be escorted to the basement. The "Authorized Personnel Only" sign on the door was no barrier; her hospital ID badge gave her authorization to go almost anywhere in the hospital. High security areas like the pharmacy, labor and delivery, the pysch ward, and medically sensitive areas were off limits, but she, like every other free employee of the hospital, technically had authorization to go to the basement. It's just that no one ever wanted to unless they had a good reason to.

Stacy, on the other hand, always had a good reason to stay away. That had changed now.

The stairwell she descended was narrow and chilly. Fluorescent lights from another era gleamed dully off the dark walls. A maintenance hallway, she figured; an easy way to haul slaves off without getting in anyone's way.

The long hallway she was led down was clean; the chemical perfume of caustic cleaners told her that much. It was old, too. Nothing in sight had been renovated since the year she quit playing with dolls. The floor tiles were dingy and worn, the light bulbs were placed high out of reach inside small mesh cages. Everything was quiet. It was late afternoon but the only activity she could detect was a single slave who scuttled off as soon as she caught sight of the free people coming down the hall. The whole place was barren, silent, and steeped in the timeless despair unique to basements. No wonder Greg avoided this level as much as possible. She knew that somewhere there were dorms, a canteen, and a security station because Greg had mentioned them, but just as he avoided the general slave population as much as possible, he didn't talk much about the place that population could be found. It was this place she found herself in now.

The hallway terminated in a lobby. A sleepy looking woman at an administration desk worked dully at some papers as they approached.

"Ms. Warner's here to see the one we've got in lockup," Meathead said. "She's got him tagged."

The night shift clerk regarded Stacy with the look she had seen on so many faces. '_Him?_' The look said. '_The troublemaker?_' But all she said was, "Second security room. Sorry, but you can't take him anywhere. We had to send a notice to the local slave administration office; we can't do anything until they get back to us."

Stacy's jaw felt tight. "I understand, but I have a legal right to check on him."

"Go ahead. I can give you five minutes."

Another hallway took them to another door. The place was a maze.

Inside, she saw Greg's long pale body curled in on itself inside a large cage on the floor. His back was to her and she could see the scars of past whippings made clear and bright under the glare of the bare bulbs.

The guard pounded on the top of the cage. "Hey! You've got a visitor." Greg flinched but didn't look up.

Now that she was closer, Stacy could see that Greg was tethered by his collar to the side of the cage. Her gut went cold. "Could you give us five minutes?" She was brisk; the quicker the man left, the quicker she could get some answers.

"That's not standard procedure," Meathead said.

"You've got him locked in a cage," Stacy snapped. "What exactly can he do?"

Meathead adjusted his belt and sighed. "Fine. Five minutes."

Stacy glared at the naked slave curled up in the cage. It wasn't long enough for him to stretch out in or tall enough for him to sit up. The man she had shared her life with for the past four years was locked by a leash to metal bars the width of her thumb. A dark voice deep in her heart smirked. He deserved this. Greg deserved this and more for doing something so stupid. Didn't he realize that he wasn't just hurting himself by trying to walk off?

"What the hell were you thinking, House?" She crouched down. "Did you really think you could just walk away? That you wouldn't be caught and hauled back here in chains?"

The slave didn't answer. Greg has his face buried behind his hands.

"Were you trying to prove something? That you're smarter than everyone here, that you can do whatever you want?" Her voice became shrill. "What the hell were you thinking?"

He shook his head, still not looking at her.

Stacy sighed and willed her tone under control. This wasn't helping. Greg – her lover and the person closest to her heart – was in serious trouble and she couldn't do anything to help. Her care and control was contingent upon the hospital's allowance. The legal rights represented by that tag could be removed as quickly as the tag itself.

She sat down on the floor, tucking her expensive shoes under her legs. She reached her fingers through the gaps between the bars, trying to touch the man she loved, but he pulled away.

Stacy sat next to the cage, not saying anything, until the guard returned for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has been reading and especially to those who have left reviews. Ya'll give me a tickly thrill down where it tickles most.

**Disclaimer:** This is an AU to the CollarVerse AU created by oflymonddreams. This story isn't connected to any CollarVerse story, though if you haven't read any of the CollarVerse stories, none of this will make any sense.

**No Escape**

Chapter Two

When Stacy thought of courtship, she thought of chaperones and long dresses, gentlemen and calling cards. She thought of Victorian reserve and the antiquated rituals of love and marriage. Courtship, she had long ago decided, was the stuff of another age. True, she had grown up imbued with the expectation that the tradition be continued, but even as a young woman, she could see that the way she behaved with young men (and they with her) was not very traditional.

According to tradition, courtship was a process that took time. It was meant to prolong the sweetness of falling in love by couching it in terms of virtue and chastity. If would-be couples were always being observed, they had to rely on subtle flirtation in a language only the two of them understood. Put that way, courtship sounded almost appealing. A quaint, genteel way of behaving that set hearts fluttering. As a fantasy, courtship sounded appealing.

In reality, the courtship Stacy had shared with Greg had been one of the most difficult things she had ever attempted. It wasn't like law school where success was a matter of tenacity, and it wasn't like working in a law firm where success was a matter of knowing how the system worked. No, trying to have a relationship with a slave meant enduring gossip, endless prying questions, and the embarrassment of trying to have a private relationship with someone whose life was on public display. But Greg had lit a fire in her that no one else had, and it had been burning since the first day they met.

It had all started with a smart comment regarding a particular doctor known for his fondness for attractive young men. Even though the doctor in question had been married to his wife for almost twenty years and seemed happy, it was common knowledge in the small world of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital that Dr. Berring paid special attention to the muscular young men he treated in the clinic. Common knowledge it may have been, but no one ever spoke about it out loud.

The Diagnostics slave did, though. Stacy had only been at the hospital a week, not nearly long enough to learn her way around. All it had taken was parking in a different lot than she had before and now here she was in the free clinic, just about as far from Legal as one could get. The tall man in the dark polo shirt and lab coat looked like he belonged. Maybe he could give her directions back upstairs.

He didn't look up when she approached. Instead, he greeted her by reading aloud from the file in his hands. "Twenty-six year old male, apparently athletic; complaining of post-workout fatigue." His sharp blue eyes met hers. "Sounds like another Berring special. We'll let him have this."

She blinked in confusion.

"Oh, don't worry," the doctor went on. "It's all very professional. Berring'd never be caught overstepping his boundaries. You'll never have to work late on his account."

"Thanks," she smirked. "Sexual harassment cases make everyone miserable. I'm trying to get up to Legal; I think they moved the elevators when I wasn't looking."

Before he could reply, an authoritative woman stepped up to the doctor. "Dr. House, you've still got four more patients to see." She presented him with a handful of files which he took from her meekly.

"The quickest way to Legal is the northwest elevators. Take those to the fifth floor." He was walking away before he even finished speaking.

The woman who had handed those files to the doctor was seated at the main admissions desk. Stacy didn't want to make any enemies at PPTH; getting lost was bad enough.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to get in the way. I just got a little lost."

The employee ID badge the woman wore identified her as Brenda Previn. "It's not a problem," Nurse Previn assured Stacy. "Greg just needs to be reminded of his job." She looked at Stacy's own ID badge. "You're new here. If you need help again, it's best if you ask the info desk for directions."

As Stacy walked briskly towards the northwest elevators, she realized that the man she had spoken with hadn't been wearing an employee badge.

* * *

><p>It wasn't long before she learned exactly who it was she had spoken to that day in the clinic and what unique arrangement he was subject to. Greg was both the head of a department and its property. He was a doctor of no small skill, but also a slave owned by the hospital itself. That explained Nurse Previn's behavior in the clinic, why she had called him Doctor House one moment and Greg the next, and why he didn't have an ID badge or a name embroidered on the breast of the lab coat he wore. Everyone knew who he was; there was no need to identify him further.<p>

Stacy didn't see Greg again for several weeks. Her time was spent in the legal department, on a different floor and in a different wing than the diagnostics department where he worked and, apparently, lived. She had mostly forgotten about it until her boss handed her a sheaf of papers.

"We've got another complaint about the Diagnostics slave," he said. "Hate to do this to you, but part of the job is cleaning up his bullshit. Doctor Cuddy's office in fifteen."

On her way downstairs she read quickly through the papers. Standard legal complaint accusing the hospital of misconduct. It sounded problematic, but Garrison's casual treatment of it suggested that this was a routine problem of minimal consequence.

When she arrived downstairs, the administrative secretary led her back to Cuddy's office. Greg was kneeling on the floor in front of the desk, a superfluous security guard flanking him on each side. Instead of the white lab coat and dark rolltop shirt he'd worn in the clinic, he wore a slave's standard white t-shirt and dark blue jeans.

Lisa Cuddy stood up as Stacy entered. "Thank you for joining us. Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers, this is Ms. Warner, a member of our legal department. Stacy, this is Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers and their lawyer, Edward Davis." Stacy shook hands with everyone and took a seat. No one spoke to or even looked at the slave kneeling in the middle of the floor.

"We don't want to file a lawsuit," Mr. Rodgers was saying. "It's just important that you understand that it's unacceptable that a slave was treating my wife. We have very strong religious beliefs regarding contact with slaves; it's unacceptable that we weren't told about this. Barbara's in delicate health and needs to be treated by an actual doctor."

"Greg is a fully licensed physician," Cuddy said smoothly. "He's been practicing in this hospital for several years. He is an invaluable member of our clinic staff."

"Are you serious?" Mrs. Rodgers snapped. She was a tired-looking woman with drawn skin and an ashy complexion. She really did look sick. "Are you telling me you have a slave practicing medicine here? Your clinic was highly recommended."

The Rodgers' lawyer spoke with professional calm. "We're not suggesting that you disrupt your hospital operations, but you can see that it would be in everyone's best interest if a slave was not allowed contact with free patients. At the very least, you should alert patients if they are going to be treated by a slave and gain their consent first."

Cuddy was equally smooth as she said, "Patients give their consent for treatment when the sign an intake form and they're seen by whichever of our doctors is available. It's impossible to say for certain which patient will be seen by which doctor. Greg has a medical license and functions as a doctor in this hospital; it would be disruptive if we had to get consent from every single patient he sees in a day." She leaned forward and continued before anyone else could speak. "What can we do to make this right? Would you be satisfied with an apology from the slave?"

While Cuddy spoke, Stacy studied the other lawyer; his demeanor would give her clues about the seriousness of the situation. Davis was calm, wore a nice suit, projected a polished air of confidence. She suspected he was bored. This wasn't much of a case. While it was possible that they might get some money if they sued, they'd probably end up spending more in legal fees than they would be awarded in court. Cuddy was right; patients consented to a basic examination by seeking treatment in the first place. Stacy was aware of this and she was sure the other lawyer was, too.

"I'd like him punished," Mr. Rodgers said. His wife nodded.

"It's against hospital policy to punish a slave for following instructions. I can offer you an apology from the slave, but unless you'd like to pursue further legal action, there isn't much I can do." Cuddy projected a firm sincerity that nonetheless discouraged pressing the issue.

Mrs. Rodgers looked at her lawyer. He nodded at her.

"Fine," she said. "I want an apology."

Cuddy looked up at the security guards who had stood silently by. "Bring Greg over here."

Greg stood under his own power. The security guards grabbed his arms and brought him roughly across the room to where the Rodgers were sitting. They dropped him roughly to the ground where he arranged himself in the proper kneeling position again.

"This slave sincerely apologizes for any harm or distress he has caused to you and your husband. Thank you for the mercy you have shown him."

Greg spoke so meekly Stacy had trouble believing this was the same brash smart-ass she had met in the clinic.

Mrs. Rodgers began walking towards the door. Her husband followed. The lawyer stood up and shook Cuddy's hand, thanking her for her time. He nodded professionally to Stacy, then followed his clients.

"Take him back upstairs," Cuddy said to the guards. When they left, she finally spoke to Stacy.

"I don't know if you have experience in slave law, but it would be helpful if you studied up."

"This happens a lot?"

"Not as often as you'd expect. Greg might be rude to clinic patients, but we deal with that in-house before a lawyer gets involved. People only call lawyers when they want to make a point about how pissed off they are." She caught herself. "No offense."

"I'd be out of a job if people never got pissed off. How exactly do you deal with it?"

"If he acts inappropriately he's disciplined in the basement, then be sent back to the clinic. People complain about him being rude more often than they notice he's a slave."

Stacy glanced down at Greg, still motionless on the floor. What exactly did 'discipline' include?

Cuddy stood up to dismiss Stacy. "Thank you for coming, Ms. Warner. We'll let you know if we need you again."

* * *

><p>Back in her office, Stacy couldn't stop thinking of the contrast between the confident, even cocky, doctor she met in the clinic and the submissive slave kneeling on an office floor. She couldn't get the image out of her head. She never had cause to think much about slaves. They were there, just a part of life, as constant and reliable as the postal service.<p>

Like all law students, she had learned the basics of slave law in some of her required courses back in school. It was an effective system, if clumsy and forever getting tripped up by the human element – just like any other branch of law. Rather like medicine, she reflected, law would work much nicer if not for the people involved.

Modern slavery was based on the fundamental assumption that the state could better take care of a person who showed themselves incapable of taking care of themselves. People who had terminal difficulty functioning in society were an age-old problem. Though involuntary servitude had been abolished after the Civil War, a series of statues were created to address the problem of a sudden loss of labor in the South and increasing population in the North. Sure, the freed Southern slaves were easy prey for these early laws and European immigrants ended up slaves within days of arriving in the United States simply because they couldn't speak English, but eventually the system was refined to its current point. Though some international voices condemned the practice, slavery advocates pointed out that those countries had state-run mental hospitals that took care of people too ill to care for themselves. It was the same thing, wasn't it? Better to be given work to do and a chance at reform than to be a leech with no hope of rehabilitation, they argued.

In a way, Stacy agreed with them. It was reasonable to give people a second chance by giving them work to do and possibly even useful skills that could be used in service of society. It took care of overcrowded prisons, prevented federal social service funds from being bled dry, and though it wasn't often said out loud, the institution of slavery separated some of the bad apples from the rest of the bushel. It was unthinkable to do away with the practice; it had been in place for generations.

That said, extensive infrastructure was required to register, process, and track slaves. It wasn't nearly as extensive as, say, the Department of Motor Vehicles, but it still astonished her to discover how much work went into the management of what was only a tiny portion of the population. How many slaves were there in the country? One percent of the population? Less than one?

One of her law school study buddies had become quite interested in slave law. He had gotten his intellectual rocks off on cases relating to the minimal differences that different states had regarding slaves; these small differences could have major consequences in divorces, property rights, even child custody. She found the whole subject unimaginably messy and did only enough work to get the right grades. Corporate law called to her.

To her knowledge, none of the firms she had worked at previously had owned proprietary slaves; it was simply cost prohibitive and required special infrastructure. Instead, senior slave-owning employees would bring their slaves to work and give them tasks to do. At the first firm she worked for, the man whose name decorated the law firm's door happened to own a slave, a slightly daffy older woman. The boss man brought her to work each day; she was kept busy taking out the trash and washing the coffee maker while he returned phone calls and jerked off in his office. Other firms had similar arrangements; slave owners who worked for the firm brought their personal slaves to work, sent them off to clean or file papers or give blow jobs in the janitorial closet, and then take them home at night. The arrangement usually functioned efficiently, but there were always exceptions.

That exception had taken place at the third firm Stacy had worked at, her first in New Jersey. She had moved there expecting that her new job would give her the career stability she was striving for, but she quickly discovered that the place was teetering on the brink of lawsuit itself. A rival firm was squeezing them hard; no wonder it had been so easy to find such a plum of a job. All the other rats had already jumped ship.

On Stacy's second to last day at the doomed firm, a piercing shriek had brought every employee out into the hall. A female client looking for a restroom had opened a maintenance closet instead. Inside, she found a blindfolded male slave on his knees, cum drying on his face. After that incident, no more privately owned slaves were brought to work.

Stacy resigned, citing an unspecific family emergency. The HR worker she spoke with gave her a knowing nod and wished her luck. She endured a few lean weeks before landing a an entry position with PPTH legal department. It chafed to be back at entry level, but there was lots of room for promotion. Hospitals - especially those connected to schools - were ideal places to build careers.

Slaves were common at PPTH, she discovered. You weren't likely to see them unless you stayed late or arrived early, but she knew that even during the day there were maintenance, cleaning, and service crews at work all over the hospital. The basement facilities were large enough to house several dozen slaves at once, an architectural concession that had been made when there was still some space left to build upon; any modern facility of a similar size would have no chance of keeping the same number of slaves on site. It was just one more quirk the set PPTH apart from other institutions.

Even knowing that there were slaves moving about the premises at any time of the day or night didn't mean that Stacy ever saw any. A glimpse of denim here, a whisper of scuttling feet there hardly counted. It was the absence of other slaves that made Greg stand out even more; he had a high profile in more than just physical terms and that made him a target. What was it that drew people towards him? Greg wasn't exactly handsome; he was too thin, his face a jumble of planes and angles. He was frequently sarcastic and could be downright mean, and as a slave he was hopelessly dependent on other people to provide for him. Now Stacy knew that Greg House had a brilliance in him that nothing could hold back. In hindsight, it was easy to see that she'd been drawn in from the very first.

Stacy would forever maintain that that third encounter had been another accident, that she hadn't been on her way to find him. Greg would insist that she was just interested in hearing more about the older doctors who like to admire rough trade in the clinic.

The argument could be heard long before it could be seen. As soon as she stepped off the elevator, raised male voices carried down the hushed hallway. A handful of shy gawkers watched from a safe distance away.

"This is your fault!" one voice yelled. "If you had just done what I told you to, this never would have happened!"

"And if I had, I would have lost my license! Running your test isn't worth my risking my career."

The first man's furious sarcasm echoed off the wall. "Oh, you're not worried about your career. If you were, you wouldn't be risking that patient's life. What looks worse on a resume, a dead woman or a misplaced consent form?"

"That consent form was not 'misplaced' - it never existed!"

Inside a glass walled conference room, she saw Greg in a screaming match with a man in a white lab coat – a Diagnostics fellow?

"What's going on?" she whispered to a candy striper.

"Not sure," the girl said. "They just started yelling."

"Hmph. People who live in glass boxes shouldn't throw stones," a nurse behind her sniffed.

The doctor in the coat slammed open the conference room door. The candy striper became suddenly interested in her clip board and the nurse remembered an important phone call.

Stacy caught the conference room door just as it was closing behind the other fellow; this one, female, headed down the hall in the opposite direction. The slave inside the room glared at the files spread wide across the table. He didn't look up when she entered.

"I'm busy," he growled.

"Sure sounds that way."

Guilty blue eyes flicked up to meet hers; for an instant, she saw fear. The slave's voice was subdued now, but firm. "I'm busy right now, Ms. Warner. If there's something you need, please make it quick. I have a dying patient that needs my attention and I've just lost one of my team members."

"Won't he come back?"

"Doesn't matter if he does. He's fired." The careful, slave-polite tone he affected was slipping; Stacy heard fire in his words. "I'm sorry, Ms. Warner, but I have work to do."

Her hand was on the door handle when he spoke again.

"Come back in a few hours if you need to speak with me."

She turned back. Greg was still standing over the table, his attention now entirely on her.

"Either she'll be dead or she won't be. Come back and you can find out which it is."

And so the slow movement of courtship began.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Yup, there's been a delay. Real Life stuff has kept me away from for-fun writing but I'm still chipping away at it. Hopefully I can get everything back on track soon.

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, you know, Fox. I don't own the playground, I just dig in the sandbox. The CollarVerse is the creation of oflymonddreams. This story is an AU to the CollarVerse and isn't related to any other CollarVerse or Collarverse AU stories.

**No Escape**

_Chapter Three_

After checking on Greg, there was nothing left for Stacy to do at the hospital. He was in better condition than she'd feared, but the heavy knot in her gut hadn't loosened. She didn't know exactly what happened to slaves who attempted escape but it certainly couldn't be pleasant.

At home she dropped her clothing on the floor, pulled on an old shirt and rolled into bed. Her chest felt tight and her gut was sour; she hadn't eaten anything since lunch but she wasn't hungry. Had Greg been fed? Would he be alright? House might still wear her tag, but there were plenty of other things the security staff might do to him that wouldn't infringe on her privileged access to the slave.

Worry would do her no good. Staying up all night remembering how House looked locked in that cage wouldn't help him, either. A nighttime pain reliever might make her groggy in the morning, but she needed the rest. Swallowing the slippery capsule with a glass of water, she lay back and waited for sleep.

Stacy dreamed vividly. When she awoke, she couldn't recall what she had seen.

* * *

><p>Technically Stacy didn't need to come in to work at 7:30, but it was the only time of day Dr. Cuddy was likely to be available for an impromptu chat. The administrative secretary hadn't arrived so Stacy let herself into Cuddy's office. Lisa waved her to a chair.<p>

Stacy settled herself. "So, what happens next?

Cuddy set aside her coffee mug. "I need to file a report with the Slave Administration Center. The slave supervisor tells me that any escape attempt has to be reported, so I'll be doing that today. Mrs. Foster said that Greg's value alone may trigger a Center investigation, I don't really know. I've never had to deal with this before. Apparently there hasn't been an escape attempt here in almost ten years."

"What happened to that slave?"

"I have no idea."

Stacy had nothing else to say; she stood to leave. "I should go. Please let me know what you find out. And I don't know if you can do anything about it, but they've got Greg locked in a security cage. He's been in there since yesterday. Can you get him moved somewhere? Somewhere not on a cage on the floor?"

Cuddy nodded. "I'll see what I can do.

* * *

><p>The Diagnostics patient had died. Samantha Keating's death resulted in a legal kafuffle for the hospital, ironically having nothing to do with the argument Stacy had walked in on. That, House explained later, was because Dr. Wallace had refused to perform a test on Keating. House and Wallace had been butting heads for some time but had managed to maintain a working relationship ("He really liked the paycheck," Greg told Stacy). Apparently that had been the final straw and Wallace stormed out. Later that evening, Greg alerted Cuddy that Wallace was fired for compromising patient care. He didn't bother to explain that Wallace had objected to performing an invasive, possibly pointless test on a woman who hadn't consented.<p>

No, the late nights Stacy had to put in for three weeks following the incident had to do with a single sheet of paper. The recently-passed federal law prohibiting medical forms from including questions regarding the free or chattel status of a patient's parents or grandparents meant that Princeton-Plainsboro had spent months shredding old forms and creating new ones. Somewhere, somehow, a single form had escaped destruction. It had found its way into a pile of revised intake forms and Samantha Keating was its unlucky recipient. The Keating family's lawyers were arguing that because Samantha had indicated on her intake form that her maternal grandmother had been a slave, she had received sub-par care; prejudiced treatment from the moment she signed the form had possibly caused her death. A settlement wouldn't bring Samantha back to life and it wouldn't give her back to her family. The hospital would settle because it was clearly at fault but thankfully no individual employee would be held liable. The whole situation was trivial and tragic. As such, it was the stuff that lawsuits were made of.

The legal grunt work Stacy was given was nothing out of the ordinary. It was below her position really, but as the new kid she had to work her way up the ladder once again. In a way, the routine comforted her. Her life had been full of uncertainty for the past few months, first when she uprooted it to move to the big city, then when she found herself in financial freefall after abandoning the self-destructing firm. She was lucky to have found this position at all.

At 11:30, her body told her she needed another caffeine boost. The glare of the computer screen was giving her a headache. Caffeine would provide some relief and jolt her back to productivity.

She decided to take the long way to the fourth floor staff lounge; the walk would help clear her head. There, near the end of the hall, light shown from a room. Someone was still at work in the Diagnostics department. Nodding to the security guard stationed near the elevators, she took a detour.

The light she had seen came not from overhead, but from a small room adjacent to the main space. Its door was tucked at the back of the conference room; she hadn't even seen it the afternoon of the argument. From inside the conference room, she could see a reading lamp illuminating a sparse standard issue desk and swivel chair.

"Can I help you, Ms. Warner?"

She started. The Diagnostics slave stood in conference room. He'd entered without a sound.

"I saw a light. Sorry."

Greg's expression was blank. _Stupid_, she thought. _No one apologizes to a slave._

Out loud she said, "I heard your patient died."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. Was it because of that test? Could that have helped her?"

"Probably not. Because Wallace decided to throw a tantrum instead of running a test, I had to waste time arguing with him instead of treating Dying Girl. The test might have had nothing to do with what was wrong with her, but he shouldn't have gotten in the way. So I fired him."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"That's life," he said, then barked a humorless laugh. "If you'll excuse me, Ms. Warner, I need to go to sleep now." Greg pointed to the room behind her. Looking, she saw a thinly padded bunk built into the wall opposite the desk. The whole space with tiny, Spartan. Thoroughly cheerless.

Mumbling another apology, she stepped away from the door and let him pass. She walked out quickly, pretending not to notice him staring after her.

* * *

><p>Greg didn't react when the guard unlocked the door to the cage. He started when the locking leash that tethered his collar to the bars was released but didn't resist behind removed from the cage. How long he had drifted in mental twilight he wasn't sure. Judging by the stiffness in his body it had been several hours. The last time he was roused was when a silent male slave had brought in a bowl of slave chow. They might fuck him and chain him naked in a cage, but they weren't about to starve him. <em>Lucky me<em>, he thought.

Stacy had come last night and tried to talk with him. He was so miserable and shaken from being dragged back inside the hospital and shoved in the cage that he couldn't speak. He wanted to talk to her to tell her . . . what exactly? What did he actually have to say?

Two hulking guards marched him by the elbows out of the security room, out across the lobby. The desk clerk, a part-time worker Greg barely recognized, held out a phone receiver. "Dr. Cuddy wants to talk to you, boy."

Holding the phone to his ear, he answered, "Yes?"

Cuddy's voice came down the line. "Greg, for the time being Diagnostics will be run by your fellows. If there's an emergency I'll arrange for a consult from you but you're in the custody of security for the time being."

"Yes, Doctor Cuddy." He tried to keep the shiver out of his voice; the floor was cold beneath his bare feet.

"You've lost your privileges. You'll stay in the basement and do whatever work they have for you."

"But my patients - "

"You should have thought of them before you took off," she snapped. He could hear the cold anger in her voice. "I've filed a report with the Slave Administration Center. This is out of my hands now."

He swallowed hard. "I understand, Doctor Cuddy."

"I'm very disappointed, Greg." He heard a click and she was gone.

The guards marched him to the toilet then locked him in one of the isolation cells. Alone in the darkness, Greg still heard Dr. Cuddy's voice in his head. The cold terror sinking into his bones from her final words felt more real than the chilly cement walls around him.

_(TBC! We'll learn about Greg's attempted escape next time.)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Autohor's Note: **Heyhey, it's another chapter! One of my day jobs is as an ad copy writer (think catalog blurbs) and sometimes at the end of the day the last thing I want to do is sit in front of my word processor. Still, the story will continue to reveal itself, like a literary striptease.

**Disclaimer:** Blah blah Fox blah. The Collarverse AU is the creation of oflymonddreams. This story is an AU to that AU and isn't part of any CV storyline.

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**No Escape**

_Chapter Four_

Greg was methodically wiping down the exam room. The patient had literally been a snot-nosed kid and a violent sneezing fit had blown mucus all over the counter. The parents that had brought their offspring into the clinic were relieved to hear that the boy probably had some kind of environmental allergies, but once the child heard what a scratch test involved, the hysterics had begun. Thankfully the parents had been embarrassed enough at the boy's behavior to bundle him out after a rapid "thankyouverymuchdoctor".

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard a commotion on the other side. He opened the door a cautious inch.

Every available member of the clinic staff was rushing towards the ER entry bay. The few early afternoon patients lingering in the waiting room were straining to see what was happening. As voices rose above the noise of the crowd, Greg quietly noticed that he was standing alone.

"A car wreck – huge pile up"

"Clear those chairs out of here!"

"Just got the call for an emergency OR. Get those surgeons down here now!"

The shriek of ambulance sirens drowned out the conversation. Nurses disappeared into the ER and the two remaining patients let themselves out. The clinic was deserted and Greg was entirely alone.

White noise suddenly filled his ears. A chilly calm dropped over his body and he knew what he could do. Walk away. Just walk away and leave everything behind. Outside that door was perfect freedom, nothing to hold him back. Outside in the open air he'd find that thing he lacked, the one thing that she most deserved to have.

Greg shrugged his labcoat a little closer around his shoulders and walked briskly out the clinic's side door. Bright white ambulances roared into the parking lot as he walked off in the opposite direction.

He didn't look back.

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Lincoln Krance's day was not off to a good start. First, he woke up with a hangover. Christ, he had only had three drinks; it was his best friend Leonard's birthday, of course he was going to have a few. Maybe the bartender poured them strong, maybe Krance hadn't drank enough water. Maybe he just wasn't a kid anymore.

Laying there dizzy and nauseous in his bed, he'd actually forgotten to look at the alarm clock. He lurched up when he saw how late he was. Forcing his stomach back into place, Krance pulled on his least dirty clothes, popped a handful of breath mints and ran out the door. No time for breakfast; his stomach couldn't handle it anyway.

Not since his distant days as a lackluster undergraduate had he slept through an alarm and miss his shift at work. Krance had always known that his willingness to work hard was the only thing that would get him ahead in this world. In this world, the one that rewarded beauty and brilliance, Krance knew he ranked low in all the categories that mattered except for his ability to show up on time, work hard all day, then come back and do it again tomorrow.

Security suited him well. He liked the routine of it; it was always a pleasure to write down the time he began his rounds and when he returned. At the end of the week he'd record totals for his daily incident tallies, then at the end of the month he'd total those totals before turning them into the boss. He valued the routine of it and felt, in his own dimly realized way, that the routine rewarded him.

The ambulances clustered around the ER entrance were not part of the routine. He had actually been looking forward to settling in for the day, hangover or no hangover. This though - this was a problem. Having gawkers and onlookers choking the parking lot was dangerous and would interrupt the flow of traffic before long. Krance parked his car at the far end of the lot and moved quickly towards the gathering crowd. He had barely cleared three yards by the time he noticed one man was walking away while everyone else was running towards.

The tall man saw Krance. Missed a step.

There was no mistaking it; the tall man walking away from the hospital was that damned Diagnostics slave, the one that had been there years longer than Krance himself, who had to be handled with kid gloves even though he was just another of the goddamn slaves.

The Diagnostics slave ran, but it wasn't any use. Krance was on him in a second.

As Krance threw the slave to the ground, he wondered if this would make up for him being late.

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Tucked away in her office, Lisa Cuddy had a headache. This wasn't unusual since she spent long stretches of her day staring into the glare of a computer monitor. Right now though, her headache had a very different source. She held the phone away from her ear and rubbed her forehead.

"Tell me again," she said.

"Security apprehended Greg in the parking lot two hours ago. Apparently he tried to escape from the clinic and a PPTH guard caught him in the act."

She didn't need this. She really didn't need this. "And now he's - "

"He's here in one of our security cages," Mrs. Devlin said. Paula Devlin had replaced Mrs. Foster two years ago upon her forerunner's retirement. Paula was similar to Mrs. Foster in many ways; a strict, stick-to-the-rules sort of woman who oversaw the management of PPTH slaves with a benevolence like iron.

"Fine. Keep him there for now."

"Doctor Cuddy," Mrs. Devlin said. "I'm sure you realize that any escape attempt has to be reported to the Slave Administration Center. This goes on a slave's permanent file."

"That's fine; I'm sure you can take care of it."

"That's not what I meant. My point is that if you don't log an escape report as well as a disciplinary action, Admin is going to take the matters into their own hands. Given Greg's position at the hospital - "

"Yes, I understand." Cuddy really, _really_, didn't want to deal with government bureaucracy this late in the afternoon. "Leave him there for the night; I'll take care of it first thing in the morning."

Mrs. Devlin didn't sound pleased. "Alright. Please call me as soon as your report has been logged; I'll need the complete report number for my records."

Cuddy slouched in her chair until her forehead dropped onto her desk. This was not why she became a doctor. This was not why she became an administrator. All she wanted was an environment that was good for patients and good for doctors. All she wanted was to know that she could depend on everyone around her to do exactly what they needed to do, when they needed to do it. No surprises. No delays. No excuses. Greg had already disrupted her private dream of creating an efficient hospital. Oh, things had improved under her management, but the amount of time she spent on one individual slave - no matter what his function - was an unacceptable drain of resources. She had always justified it with the department of diagnostics' stellar record. They did work that no one else could and that was all thanks to Greg. The other board members didn't understand that Cuddy's close personal management of Greg and his department had been the engine behind its success. They just saw Greg as an inconveniently high-profile slave. And now he had tried to escape. This was just one more nightmare of red tape he had landed her in.

She picked up the phone to call Stacy Warner.

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Being bodily tackled and thrown to the ground knocked the wind out of Greg; he fought to stay conscious as the guard ground his head into the asphalt and pulled his arms hard behind his back. Greg felt metal handcuffs snap around his wrists and heard the man using his two-way to call for backup. Before he could take even a single normal breath, he was being hauled across the parking lot and into an unmarked maintenance door.

They had stripped him in the basement security room, then snapped a handy leash around one of the rings on his collar. One guard kicked Greg's knees so they buckled while another held the cage door open. More hands pulled him into position and he gagged as the collar was jerked hard against his neck. He heard the guard's heavy hands rattle against the metal grid of the cage; another snap of metal locking into place, then they left him in the dark.

Panting there in the cage, alone in the darkness, Greg tried to pull his awareness back where it belonged. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal. Adrenaline drained from his system and he sagged on the floor of the cage, unwilling even to adjust his collar where it dug into his neck.

What had he been thinking? How was it that the idea of escape even entered into his mind? He knew how good he had it here and he knew what might happen if he fucked up. Slaves were bought and sold every day; he had heard whisperings that it wasn't unusual for badly-behaved slaves to be sent back to processing. Here at the hospital, Greg had a life, sort of. He had a department, a team, and a woman to love. He had Stacy.

_That's a lie_, a dark little voice whispered. _You're a slave. You have nothing_. Everything that defined him in PPTH was given to him by someone else. He had a department only because Dr. Lisa Cuddy had decided a department of diagnostics was a good idea. He had a team only because Cuddy wanted her pet project to succeed. He wore Stacy's tag only because his owner the hospital said he could. At any time Cuddy, on behalf of the hospital, could take away anything he had. He would eat what and when the hospital wanted him to. He would wear whatever he was given to wear and he would go wherever he was sent. He would do all these things because there was no other realistic option. And after a round of processing and five years of slavery, the mental agility that would have let him dream about alternatives had gradually shut down. Greg knew that no matter how nicely he dressed or where he slept or who he got to order around, he could only think like a slave.

So why now? Why had escape occurred to him now and never before? What had changed?

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The cold lump that settled in Stacy's chest when Cuddy told her about Greg's escape attempt didn't dissipate when she hung up the phone. It got worse, actually. The more she thought about the situation, the more out of control it felt. Cuddy had told her that the attempt had to be reported, that there would have to be disciplinary action taken on part of the hospital. Stacy would be kept informed of everything, but Lisa had taken pains to remind her – again - that Stacy's claim on Greg was at the sole discretion of the hospital; Stacy had no real legal leverage. The care and control allowed her by law was to keep an organization like Princeton-Plainsboro in check. Her personal attention could ensure that PPTH wasn't neglecting or misusing their indentured property, but that was the legal extent of her privilege. Of course, there was the unwritten rules regarding sexual use and Lisa had been willing to hear Stacy's occasional plea for a lenient punishment when Greg acted up, but neither of those things were irrevocable. They were simply smoke that could be waved away by a single decision of the hospital board of directors.

Stacy had rarely discussed the intricacies of slavery with Greg. He was usually reluctant to talk too much about it; after all, what would Stacy need to know about it that she wasn't already aware of? She knew his sales and discipline records could be gotten from Cuddy. She'd seen the scabby fingerprints left behind by judiciary whippings and she'd seen the mottled bruises on his buttocks after he'd been caned. Even though Stacy never saw the kind of food fed to slaves in the basement cafeteria, she had seen his underweight body. Though he'd taken pains to hide his casual sexual use, she hadn't been unaware of them for long. In fact, it had been the aftermath of a session of casual sexual use that Stacy had made the choice to tag House.

That little piece of metal snapped to his collar had changed everything, or so she had thought at the time. She and House had both fallen into the illusion that that little tag had meant he was safe. Maybe he didn't get assaulted by the security staff every time he dropped his guard but safety was more than that. She knew House didn't feel safe. Even when he was with her at home there were moments that the slave Greg looked out at her through House's bright blue eyes.


End file.
